


i hope they write your names beside mine

by theundiagnosable



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: because effie is precious and needs to be defended at all costs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or: the world catches fire and effie trinket watches</p>
            </blockquote>





	i hope they write your names beside mine

**Author's Note:**

> implied rape/violence, nothing explicit

i.

x.           

You’ve never been particularly gifted at coping with bad things. For most of your life, you don’t have to.

And then, in no more time than it takes to eat some berries or whistle three notes or shoot an arrow, you do.

Sometimes – alright, fine, the vast majority of the time – you feel as though the weight of everything that you’ve seen or heard or _known_ is causing your head to cave in on itself and the only possible solution is to drop to the ground and cry. But you are Effie Trinket, confound it all, and so you get your hands on a pair of heels and a train ticket and somehow find yourself in District Twelve.

It occurs to you as you totter down the makeshift path that the dust on your shoes might well be the remains of someone burnt to ash in the bombing, and later on you’ll probably wretch into the bathtub and try to scrub yourself clean but for now it strikes you as entirely hilarious; and that’s why Katniss opens her front door to find you doubled over, nearly hysterically laughing. It’s all dreadfully undignified (Rule Number Eighteen: Anything other than a giggle is excessive) but the completely confused look on Katniss’ face only makes you laugh harder.

So, all things considered, you’re off to a good start.

(Later on, when you’re sitting across from each other on the stained settee, Katniss will ask why you came, and you’ll just shrug.

“I don’t have anything else. Anyone else,” you’ll say, and she’ll look at you like she’s seeing you for the first time.

“Effie,” Katniss will say, sounding particularly young, “where’s your wig?” And somehow, you’ll want to start laughing all over again.)

x.

These are the facts:

They come into your home and take you away, and no one spares a second thought for any of your pretty things. You suppose that they are destroyed in the revolution, though what butterfly patterned dresses have to do with oppressive governments and opposed ideals, you have no idea.

They put you in jail as though you’re some sort of criminal, and for a while you think that it’s the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

(sometimes people say you’re like a child and when they strap you to a chair and make you cry [ _and scream and beg and pray andandandand_ ] you can’t help but agree with them)

“Miss Trinket,” one of them says, once, “we don’t want to hurt you.”

They then proceed to hurt you, mercilessly and efficiently, and the only reason that you can remember this specific incident with so much clarity is that it’s the moment when you realize how stupid stupid stupid you have been.

So that’s something, at least.

x.

“Hello there!” You say brightly the first time you meet, “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the fiftieth hunger games and Capitol media fodder, glares at you with such ferocity that you take a step back. “Did you need something?” He practically snarls, and you force yourself to smile pleasantly.

“Not in particular, no – I just thought that I might introduce myself, because we’re going to be working together. And of course,” you continue hastily, because he seems on the verge of interrupting, “I’m here to help you as well, so if there’s anything you need-”

“It’s your first year,” says Haymitch, holding up a hand to stop you, “so I’ll be nice when I tell you that I’d rather fuck President Snow than get any ‘help’ from anyone in the Capitol, least of all the latest model of their mannequin.”

Your mouth is open in a perfect ‘o’ of shock, because you’re fairly certain that he’s just committed a minor act of treason, and in the most positively crude way possible. No one, not in your entire life, has ever spoken to you like that.

You stand up as tall as you can, squaring your shoulders indignantly. “I’ll have you know that no mannequin has ever worn this dress. It’s custom designed.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Haymitch drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes and pushing past you to head for the bar. As he brushes against your side, you catch a whiff of alcohol, strong and forceful and following him determinedly.

“It was nice to meet you,” you call after him (Rule Number Three: The escort never lets emotions interfere with her job), but he doesn’t turn around.  

x.

You realize, that night, that he’s the first person you’ve ever met who’s killed someone.

If only you knew.

x.

Somewhere in the next few hours, Peeta joins you and Katniss in the sitting room. He sits down silently next to her, like his presence is a common enough thing that there’s no need to announce it. You, of course, spring to your feet and pull him in for a hug with an enthusiastic cry.

You hold his face in your hands and examine him almost clinically – he’s still skinnier than before, but the padding on his cheeks is starting to come back and, when he takes in your pink blouse and bracelets, contrasting so starkly with the general lack of colour in Twelve, he smiles.

You chatter on about how good he looks and how happy you are that both of them are here and together and safe; you can see him exchange a fondly exasperated look with Katniss over your shoulder, as though they’re still the two children that you’d first met, bemused by the funny capitol lady come to escort them to their deaths.

( _CHILDKILLER. That’s what someone wrote on your door, in horrible red letters that clash with the paint in the hall. You think the words are burnt into the backs of your eyelids.)_

The door opens again and you all jump, but then a voice from the doorway calls, “Well, looks like we’re getting the band back together.”

“Looks like it,” you agree lightly, turning to face Haymitch. He meets your eyes, still not moving, and after a long second, he relents and smiles. He’s all sharp edges and bitterness but you launch yourself forward and clutch him close. He hesitates, but his arms wrap around you and you think his hand might be shaking. He stinks of booze.

He doesn’t make fun of how you look, which is how you know how very much things have changed. But no, this is a good and happy day, so you smile brilliantly and so convincingly that you even fool yourself.

“Oh,” you gush, disentangling yourself from him and adjusting your hair, “I’m just so happy to see all of you again, I really, truly am!”

“You too, Effie.” Peeta says, holding out a hand which you take gratefully, squeezing it within your own. You’ve never been a particularly motherly person, but you’d like to imagine that it’s something like this.

“What do you think of the place?” Haymitch asks drily, and you know that he means the district as a whole, not the house. You think of the dust-people outside, the rubble that cracks under your feet, and sky so light that it seems afraid to be blue – but then you think of hateful looks and executions and _CHILDKILLER_ and think you’ve discovered some sort of paradise.

“Well,” you answer, “you know what they say about coal and diamonds.”

Peeta laughs, Katniss grins, and Haymitch rolls his eyes, and that’s when you know that some things don’t, or maybe can’t change.

x.

Later, when the sky is dark and Peeta starts yawning, you excuse yourself and Haymitch does the same. He walks with you down the street, hands in his pockets and kicking chunks of rubble out of the way.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says gruffly, and you shrug jauntily, still looking ahead.

“Surprises are always nice, aren’t they?”

He shoots you an exasperated look. You still don’t meet his eyes, and he doesn’t push.

“Katniss and Peeta-”

“They’re fine. Well,” he corrects himself, “not fine. They’d be insane if they were fine. But they’re alive.”

“Well,” you say, “I suppose it’s better than the alternative.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Haymitch agrees, and you shoot him a skeptical look.

“You’d drink to anything.”

“Fair enough.”

You arrive at his doorstep, and he clears his throat somewhat uncomfortably. “You staying here tonight?”

You nod, and he opens the door, not bothering to hold it for you.

“Haven’t cleaned in weeks,” he warns, disappearing into the house and you smile tightly.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

He scoffs harshly, muttering something about Capitol people and their upturned noses. You ignore him and stride into the house, nearly tripping over a disarrayed shoe stand.

You take comfort in acting like nothing has changed, but you catch him staring at you like he doesn’t recognize you, and then like he sees every part of you, and you can’t decide which is worse.

You miss your wigs.

You miss seeing beautiful things.

Then again, you think, you also missed Peeta and Katniss and maybe even Haymitch, at least until you went out and found them.

So maybe that’s the key to it all; maybe you’ve just got to take things into your own hands.

(and hopelessness has never been your style, anyway)

 

ii.

x.

After the rebels let you out of your cell, you become very good at not thinking about it.

It’s not especially difficult, at first: you emerge from a metal box into a changed world on shaky newborn legs.  All of your friends are fled or imprisoned, your favourite shop has closed down, and they still haven’t finished moving all of the bodies.

You haven’t realized yet that they aren’t going to.

But then-

There are only so many times that you can be shocked by destruction, and once you get used to the fact that you’ll never be used to anything ever again, you have too much time to think. Your thoughts begin to get loud, then deafening, and it gets to the point where you can barely close your eyes without going back there.

 _This doesn’t have to hurt_ , says the man in the peacekeeper uniform, night after night, and you open your eyes and scream and no one hears a thing.

You tug on your scalp, willing your hair to grow, and wonder when it will; life was easier when you didn’t have to think quite so much.

 _We hardly get any pretty ones_ , he says in your head, and that’s when you decide to run.

x.

You pass your escort certification exam on your very first try, a rarity. Your classmates whisper about you behind your back and your parents tell you how proud they are.  Your instructor recommends you for immediate placement as an escort.

They show your picture for the smallest of seconds on the nightly gossip report, your friends take you out for drinks, and just like that, you have everything you’ve ever wanted.

It’s that easy.

x.

The next morning, you wake up beside Haymitch and stare at him until he wakes up too. He looks like he’s frowning, even when he sleeps, even when you can see the scars scattered across his chest, unprotected and vulnerable.

When he blinks himself into awareness and realizes that you’re there, he sits up, mumbling a sleepy greeting. You put a hand on his chest, keeping him from leaving. He could move you if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, settling back into place and waiting for you to speak.

When you don’t, he reaches out and tugs on one of the strands of hair that falls in front of your face. It’s barely past your ears, even after all of these weeks and months, wispy and damaged by the years of styling before you switched to wigs.

“It’s getting longer,” he observes, and you smile wistfully.

“When I was a little girl, it curled like this,” you twist a strand around your finger a couple of times, until it’s pulled tight and your hand is nearly touching your scalp. The curl holds for a few seconds before it goes limp, and you almost sigh, but instead shake your head and sit up straight. “Oh well. What’s done is done, I suppose.”

You snatch one of his sweaters from a nearby chair, slipping it over your head and wiggling your fingers free of the overlong sleeves. Thank god for small graces, the sweater is old and Capitol made, soft cashmere that cradles your skin and reminds you of before. You close your eyes and luxuriate in the feeling for a moment (Rule Number Thirty-Six: the escort finds time to appreciate the finer things in life), then Haymitch speaks.

 “How long are you staying?” He asks. He put on pants while your back was turned, and now he does up the buckle on his belt.

“The train comes back in a week. Six days, now, I suppose.”

“Hmph.” He grunts noncommittally, pulling on a shirt and fastening the buttons one at a time. “What’re you going to do ‘til then?”

You purse your lips, kneeling on the bed and folding your hands in your lap as you debate how to share the idea that you’ve been working on since last night.

“I want,” you announce, with a slight tinge of defiance in your voice because if you know him at all you know he’ll think this is ridiculous, “to fix things.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, then looks out of the window where, under a thick veneer of dust, the bombed skeletons of hundreds of buildings are visible. He makes sure that you look, then meets your eyes. “Sweetheart,” he says like he pities you, “I think you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

x.

The first time that you sleep with him, it’s your third Games and both of your tributes have been killed within twenty seconds of the gong. One grabs a machete, drops it, and is stabbed in the chest by a twelve year old; the other is beheaded by a behemoth from district seven in one smooth swoop.

 _Happy Hunger Games_ , you think bitterly, as Haymitch throws his drink at the screen and, in the same movement, gets up to pour himself another.

You’re still frozen, covering your mouth with your hand, repulsed by the unfeeling speed with which your tributes were just dispatched after so many careful training sessions. On screen, the twelve year old that stabbed your boy has her neck broken by a Career.

You so hoped that this would be your year.

Over at the bar, Haymitch gulps down his drink and opens a new bottle, which he promptly begins to pour into a glass. He sees you watching him and holds it up, offering you some. You shake your head, shock starting to wear off.

“They didn’t even have a chance.” You protest, as if anyone, least of all Haymitch, cares.

“Told her to watch out for that one,” Haymitch says from the bar, “now he’s got an axe, no one’ll be able to stop him. Stupid mistake.”

Blood from another tribute splatters the camera, obscuring the screen for a fraction of a second before the angle switches; it occurs to you in some still-functional part of your mind that the Gamemakers may have slightly oversold the idea of being an escort.

“Stupid,” says Haymitch again, and it’s like everything stops. You stand up, making a point not to look at the screen, not even out of the corner of your eye. (someone is screaming in the background) You stride across the room toward the bar, and by the time Haymitch looks up and notices you, you’re less than a foot in front of him. He watches as you close the distance between them, and seems on the verge of a sarcastic comment when you clutch his collar and yank him down to capture his lips with yours.

He kisses you back for just a second before pulling back and staring at you questioningly.

“I don’t want to watch the Games,” you say, entirely selfish, and he shakes his head with something akin to revulsion.

“You’re despicable. Every single one of you.” Haymitch spits the words like venom, and you consider arguing or maybe even hitting him but then he grabs your head in both his hands and kisses you urgently, hungrily and you stand on your toes to be closer to him.

Without breaking apart from you, he grabs you around the waist and lifts you onto the bar and now you’re the one looking down on him as a glass tumbles to the ground and shatters at his feet. You wind your fingers into his hair, tugging so that he gives a sharp hiss of pain. Your lip gloss makes his lips sticky against yours, and it’s an odd mix of artificial cherry and expensive liquor taste. You wrap your legs around his middle, and he fumbles with the zipper at the back of your dress.

You don’t love him. You don’t even really like him. But he’s here, and you think that he might just understand, so you let him.

(And it’s funny – somewhere just miles away, someone is dying right this second.)

(This one, too.)

x.

So you find a broom and sweep the front steps.

You do Haymitch’s house first, then Katniss, and then Peeta’s, and then any vaguely intact structure within walking distance. Really, all you’re doing is shifting the dust over a few feet, but it’s less visible on the ground and by the time you’ve finished, there is a marked difference.

“Water,” you say, when Peeta comes outside to see what you’re doing. “We need water.”

He and Katniss make three or four trips down to the river, coming back with buckets full of water that you use to scrub down the steps and whatever other surfaces you can find. You’re not a fan of physical labour, never have been and never will be, but cleanliness and neatness make everything better so you don’t take a break.

After a while, Katniss goes back inside, patience wearing thin, but Peeta stays and helps.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says gently, like he’s still worried about offending you even after all this time. “It’s okay to just visit.”

You shake your head, throwing in a light laugh for good measure. “Don’t be silly, dear! There’s no way that things will get any better if you’re living in the ashes of the past. It’s like... beauty base zero!” You finish with a flourish, and Peeta looks at the ground, then back at you, like he’s deciding something. You keep on scrubbing at the stubborn patch of dirt in front of you.

Finally, he speaks. “Come with me.”

You let him lead you out of the victor’s village, far enough that you begin to wish you’d borrowed some more comfortable shoes. You walk far enough that, eventually, the rubble disappears and is replaced by a field of grass. You think that you make out the remains of a metal fence, twisted and melted into a heap on the ground.

Peeta keeps walking, and you follow him. And then you stop.

In front of you, stretching out in every direction, the grass is torn up and jagged at the edges, and there’s a mountain of soil piled up so high that it obscures the forest behind it.

You don’t realize that you’re shaking your head until Peeta grabs your arm to steady you, and then it occurs to you that you can barely support your own weight.

“No,” you say, even though everything right in front of you is screaming yes yes yes.

(and you know – of course you know – what you’re looking at)

“Paylor sent a crew down here to clear out the bodies before we arrived. Said she didn’t want any possible triggers.”

 “Don’t tell me,” you say, and if you were anyone other than who you are you’d be ashamed of yourself. ”I don’t want to know.”

“Okay,” says Peeta, and doesn’t complain, even though you’re clinging to his arm tightly enough to leave bruises.

Your friends didn’t get buried, not even in a horrible, messy pile like this.

“Why did you bring me here?” You ask, after taking a few moments to compose yourself.  You’re fairly certain that he sees through it, but he doesn’t comment.

“Katniss used to come here all the time. To hunt, or just to walk around. Now she doesn’t.” He doesn’t have to explain why. “If you want to fix something, this could be a good place to start.”

And your heart aches at the look he gives you, like he still has hope that you can bring some measure of control to this uncontrollable situation. (you could have done more to protect him)

(you couldn’t even protect yourself)

“I’ll see what I can do.” You say, because honestly, at this point, you’re an expert on lost causes.

x.

You think for a long time about how to do what Peeta asks. A person is one thing, but a giant, unmoveable pile of dirt, well, that’s a whole new challenge.

In the end, you decide on flowers. Life, and beauty, and perseverance, and all that. You don’t think Katniss will care too much about the finer points, so long as they hide the dirt.

Late that night, after you hang up the phone, Haymitch looks you right in the eye and asks why you’re trying so hard. “What’s the point? We won. It’s done.”

You shake your head. “You won. I was let out of my jail cell at Katniss’ request.”

“You prefer things the way they were?”

“I prefer knowing where I belong and who I’m supposed to be.”

“Not sure you get a choice about that,” he says, and you drop his gaze but keep your chin up, and just like that the honest moment ends.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your advice.” You give a tight but teasing smile, and he grumbles good naturedly.

“You’d think I’d be used to that by now.”

You laugh and it’s almost sincere, and he pulls you down for a kiss and it’s almost tender.

(And for the next few hours, you almost forget.)

(Almost.)

x.

The door to your cell clangs open, and you instinctively shrink into the corner. There’s only one peacekeeper, though, and it’s not the usual time.

(you should have known)

You brace yourself to be yanked to your feet and dragged in for more beatings, but the man just stands in the doorway and looks at you for so long that you start to wonder if he’s fallen asleep.

“We hardly get any pretty ones,” he says, and stupid little girl, you’re actually flattered. Tears spring to your eyes, even though you’ve told yourself not to cry anymore, because it’s been so long since someone’s called you pretty, so long since someone’s even said the word.

And then he steps forward, grabs both of your wrists in one large, gloved hand, and kisses you. You freeze in shock, then bite his lip as hard as you can and let out a pitiful scream for help. Your voice gets stuck in your throat because you know, then, what’s happening; because this only happens to bad girls that say no to the President, this doesn’t happen to pretty escorts at the top of their class.

The man doesn’t seem to care about that. He pushes you back against the wall with ease, saying in a low voice, “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

And then-

And then-

And then-

An Insignificant Observation: He doesn’t even turn the lights on.

x.

Rule Number One: The function of the escort is to serve the Capitol and its citizens, however necessary.

 

iii.

x.

Throughout the next six days, you are in full escort mode, a blur of cleaning supplies and salvaged jewelry (unfortunately for you, it’s rather more of the former than the latter).

You’ve never painted a house before, but you decide to do just that when you discover untouched cans of paint in a basement closet, probably a remnant of the victory tour. Haymitch looks skeptical, but there’s a reason that you got so many sponsors for Katniss in the games and it definitely wasn’t her personality.

That’s how, when the sun rises the next morning, you’re holding the ladder steady for Haymitch as he slaps the yellow paint on the front of his house in sloppy, uneven strokes. Every so often, the occasional drop of paint falls and splatters against the top of your head. You don’t say anything, because you think that it’s an accident until, the sixth time it happens, you look up and see him smiling to himself.

“Haymitch Abernathy,” you scold, “you are a menace to civilized society.”

“Oh, the horror,” he says, putting the back of a hand to his forehead and pretending to swoon. “Does this mean that I’m uninvited to the soiree next week?”

“Keep it up and you’re uninvited from any _soiree_ ever again,” you mutter darkly, lowering your eyebrows pointedly so he knows exactly what you’re implying. He pulls a face at you, but goes back to work, haphazardly flinging another splash of paint so that it ends up splattered all over the gutters.

You sigh.

If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

x.

A couple of hours later, when Katniss slips out of her front door, she’s greeted with the sight of Haymitch standing at the bottom of a ladder, holding it steady as Effie Trinket, Capitol Escort and Respectable Citizen declares the house a masterpiece and holds her hands out as if to bow for an imaginary crowd. As she does so, she knocks the can of paint onto its side, causing Haymitch to give a startled shout as he’s promptly showered with yellow paint.

(And it’s quiet and over too soon, but you hear Katniss laugh, and even Haymitch smiles.)

x.

The last time you see him before the rebels destroy the arena, you know that he’s hiding something from you. That in itself isn’t entirely unexpected – what surprises you is that he’s actually managing to do it. You have no idea what’s going on, and no way of finding out.

You watch Beetee explaining his plan, and Haymitch is riveted on the screen, clenching his fist so tightly that it looks as though his nails are cutting into his flesh. Sure enough, when you put a tentative hand on his and his fingers unclench one by one, there are four tiny, crescent shaped cuts in his palm.

“It’s a good plan,” you offer, “if it works they’ll be that much closer to coming back.” You still say ‘they’, because you can’t quite bring yourself to accept that only one of them will return, and that’s if you’re impossibly lucky.

Haymitch still doesn’t respond, so you let go of his hand, figuring that if he wants to talk, he will; you’re not about to try investigating how he’s acted recently. You move to turn back to the screen, but he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you in, kissing you. There’s something different about this one, searching and scared and real and if there’s one thing that you two don’t do it’s real.

He pulls away, and there’s something akin to insanity blazing in his eyes. “What would you say if I asked you to run away with me?”

Your heart stops, and after a moment of suffocating silence, you force a laugh. “Bring you to the hospital so they can find out who drugged you.”

And just like that, whatever look was in his eyes is gone, replaced by the stone wall that’s been there for years. He gets to his feet, ignoring your hand on his leg, and gulps down the remainder of his drink. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” You ask, baffled, leaning on the back of the couch as he heads for the door.

“Nowhere. You should get home too.” He pushes the door open, and you wonder what you did to make things so bad so quickly.

“Haymitch!” You call, and meet his eyes when he turns around. You feel helpless. “What’s going on?”

He looks at you for a second that feels like an hour. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

And he goes, and you’re alone with the games still playing in the background.

And that’s the end of that.

x.

You can still smell paint through the open window when you go to bed on the night before the train comes. You line up your bracelets and rings meticulously on top of the dresser, and Haymitch watches you from the foot of the bed.

“How are you so normal?” He asks, then corrects himself before you can respond. “Not normal, you’ve never been normal -” He ignores your affronted look. “- but yourself. How are you still so... Effie?”

You shrug, not looking away from your jewelry. “I seem to recall you telling me that I didn’t have a choice.”

He doesn’t smile. “You’re happy. Or you try to be. How?”

“I’m not happy,” you say, and it tastes like vinegar in your mouth, admitting failure. “I mean, I am, some of the time. I try to be, even when I’m not.”

“Why the hell-”

“Because!” You cut him off, and one of your rings slips out of your hand and set the others bouncing about wildly. “Because I’m not one of you angsty hero types. I like being happy better than being sad, I like colourful things better than boring things, and I don’t like it when people around me are unhappy. I could very easily be miserable, but I choose not to because if I do I won’t know how to stop.”

You can feel the pressure of his gaze on your back, and you exhale, letting your eyes flutter shut. “I’m still Effie Trinket,” you say, “even if the world isn’t still the world. And I might not be able to control if things are pretty, but you can be damn sure that I’ll do my best to try.”

Other than Haymitch’s stunned silence and the fact that you just broke rule number eleven (an escort never uses foul language), you feel quite good. It’s an odd sort of release, half-yelling, half-confessing to someone.

It occurs to you that Haymitch hasn’t spoken in a while, so you turn to face him for the first time. He meets your eyes.

“Effie Trinket,” he says, slow and stunned, “you might just surprise us yet.”

x.

Haymitch watches the train pull out of the station, features unreadable.

“Well,” you say, standing beside him, “that’ll be it until the next supply run.” You pick up one of the sacks of seeds that you ordered, and Haymitch does the same.

“You’re really staying?” He asks, as you walk back through the rubble, side by side.

“Of course,” you say airily, “you didn’t think I’d make you plant these flowers by yourself, did you?”

He grabs your free hand with his, swinging your joined arms back and forth in the space between you as you walk home.

x.

You’re nine years old, sitting in front of the mirror at the stylists’, and your mother squeezes your hand. (They have to bring out a booster seat for the lady to be able to work with your hair.)

“Are you ready, Effie?”

You nod and, in what is probably the most profoundly existential moment in the life of a little girl who knows nothing about anything, open your eyes. Your blonde hair is now pink and pinned in place above your head, just like the grown up ladies that you see in the streets and on magazines.

The stylist claps and gushes about how beautiful you look, and your mother looks at you for the longest she ever has before catching sight of her own reflection and getting distracted.

And, if someone were to ask, you’d say that it’s everything you could ever want.

(Until next time, of course.)

x.

When the weather is warm enough, you’ll plant the flowers, and they won’t look like much but you’ll be willing to bet that they’ll spread, maybe even become a meadow.

They will, and when Peeta brings Katniss to see the field of flowers that stretches as far as anyone can see, you and Haymitch will stand by what used to be the fence and watch her hug him close, whispering words that no one will be able to hear but them.

And when the flowers grow – because they will, strong and colourful and everywhere, you’ll braid Katniss’ hair and tuck the blossoms into the bottom. She will grab one from your hand and slide it behind your ear, pinning back the strands of your hair that, by then, will reach your shoulders, soft and yellow and, you think, maybe even curly again.

“Effie,” she’ll say, “you look beautiful.”

And you know what?

You’ll agree.


End file.
